


by the world forgot

by plinys



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind Fusion, Amnesia, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 03:31:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4591374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/pseuds/plinys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“But I won’t remember this conversation?"</p><p>After the death of his mentor, Eggsy is left with the haunting memories of a man gone past. In a last ditch effort, he agrees to take part in an experimental procedure which will wipe all memories of Harry Hart (and of Kingsman) from his mind. But as the procedure involves reliving those memories before their deletion, Eggsy slowly realizes the depth of his feelings for Harry and comes to realize that losing him is the last thing he wants to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	by the world forgot

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the wonderful Kingsman Mini Bang! I am so excited to have taken part in this event. This fic sort of came into existence right before the deadline for rough drafts when I sent a message to my wonderful beta Liz pretty much saying "what if I wrote the most angst filled au ever" and as we all know eternal sunshine of the spotless mind aus are meant for angst. (Thought note, if you've never seen the movie the au is based off of, you can still read this fic and understand what is happening just fine!)
> 
> Also a million thanks to my lovely artist, you can check out their art of the fic HERE!

It’s a weird feeling, watching oneself.

He’d always found it strange to watch the footage of his missions, seeing reflections of himself on one of Merlin’s many screens, too unnerved by the reflection of himself to ever feel comfortable.

But if that had been bad, then this is ten times worse.

He isn’t watching himself on the screen, but rather trapped inside his body, living through the motions and replaying everything that had happened. It’s ten times worst than any recording, he’s had to watch before.

“But I won’t remember this conversation,” he ( _or the reflection of himself_ ) says.

“If this goes right, you won’t remember _anything_. This process is stronger than any of our amnesia darts—it doesn’t just take away the memories; it alters them, making it impossible to remember,” Merlin explains. “You’ll wake up tomorrow morning feeling a little bit hungover, stuck with the fabricated memory of having just been fired from your job as a _tailor_ , and you’ll move on.”

“And I’ll forget,” the next word is fuzzy, like static from an old television. He can’t place his finger on what it was that he had said.

Merlin seems to have heard him properly, because there’s a frown on his face. This is the part where he’s supposed to reluctantly sigh and tell Eggsy that he really meant everything, that once this was done, there would be no going back.

Instead Merlin says, “You know, Eggsy, it isn’t too late to back out.” And some part of him knows that isn’t quite right, like he’s remembering it wrong.

The words stick in his throat, and all he manages to do is shake his head before—

 

 

[ “Let the records show I didn’t want him to go through with this. The procedure is highly experimental; we’re not even certain it will work properly.”

“It’s not as though you had another choice.”

“We could have just told him—”

“Please don’t start up with that again, Merlin; I’m not particularly in the mood.” ]

 

 

“How are you feeling?”

“Fucking fantastic.” He’s sitting in the Kingsman shrink’s office, sprawled out over the couch, no doubt wrinkling his suit. “Never been better, actually.”

“Sarcasm is counterproductive to the process,” the psychiatrist— _Morgana,_ the voice inside his head prompts (because everyone here has obnoxious Arthurian codenames)—points out.

“Sorry, I just—I don’t need to talk about my feelings or whatever the fuck you want me to do.”

He’s been to these sort of things before, back with his mum. There had been plenty of court appointed psychiatrists, ones that he’d told to go fuck themselves at the first opportunity before ignoring everything else they had to say until a clean bill of health was issued to him. One of them had made him look at ink blots, asking how they made him feel. He’d given her some story about how he lost his virginity to a prostitute (a blatant lie, of course), and she stopped asking questions after that.

“Can’t we just do the standard post mission eval? You ask a few stupid questions, make sure I’m not fucked in the head, and I go back out into the field,” Eggsy asks.

“Do you want to talk about why you threw yourself out of a five story building on your last mission, or should I bring up other instances regarding your suicidal tendencies?”

“ _Suicidal tendencies_ , the fuck are you going on about? I was in fucking Venice, the roads are water, it’s not like I was going to fucking die—”

“What about Berlin?”

“Well, I didn’t really have another—”

“Monte Carlo?”

“Merlin told me to—”

“Or should we perhaps talk about _Kentucky_?”

“Fuck you.”—

 

 

He’s always hated funerals.

It’s a dreary affair, everyone dressed in dark suits, staring at a hole in the ground and giving empty recollections of times gone past as though being here could change anything.

It hasn’t started raining yet, but there are clouds heavy in the air, and a chill has been creeping into his bones since he stepped out of the Taxi and stood to join the gathered crowd.

A woman he’s never met before stands at the front of the group, telling tales of her estranged brother the tailor, who lost his life as so many others had: an unfortunate side effect of the Valentine’s Day massacre.  He wants to correct her, to tell the truth, that Harry was shot point blank, that he hadn’t gone out on accident, but that a deliberate action taken by a megalomaniac stole the light from his eyes.

He doesn’t say anything.

It’s above her clearance level anyways.

He takes slow measured breaths as she finishes up her speech, coming away from the front with tear streaked eyes. His own eyes burn as he looks away from her, willing the tears not to come as the pastor rises to give the final blessing before the casket is lowered into the ground.

A hand squeezes his, and he looks up to meet Roxy’s sad and worried gaze. She doesn’t understand, not really—she’d only met Harry one time before, but he couldn’t stand to be there alone, and there was no way he was bringing his mum.

“Want to get the fuck out of here,” he says quickly, before she can voice the concern that is so clearly written on her face.

“Don’t you want to say something?” she asks. “After they’ve finished, we can go up the grave and you could say some words?”

“What does it matter? He’s already fucking dead, yeah?”

“Eggsy.”

“Please can we just go?”

After seeming to debate with herself for a moment, she nods her head once and stands up from her seat. When she turns to offer her hand, his slips into hers. Looking over her shoulder for a second, he could almost swear he sees someone he knows, a familiar cut of suit, a black umbrella opening just as the light mist in the air turns into a soft drizzle and—

 

 

There’s an ease to his motions which comes from having done this hundreds of times before, even though this is supposed to be his first time. Fingers knowing just which parts to button, how to smooth his suit jacket down so the fit is perfect, and just the right way to knot his tie.

After all, a Kingsman always looks his best.

For that one moment, he actually is a proper gentleman spy. Dressed in a bespoke bullet-proof suit, he thinks for a moment that he could take on the world.

He half wonders what Harry would think if he could see him now.

Would he look in that mirror and still see a young man with potential, or would he look like he had moments before he left, face tainted with disappointment.

For a second Eggsy blinks, and it’s not his eyes staring into the a minor, but another set, darker and wiser, that blink back at him—

He can see himself in the reflection of the laptop screen, as he tunes in to see the video from Harry’s glasses feed. The sermon he’s listening to is absolute shite, and were it him in Harry’s shoes he would have walked out minutes ago.

He stares at the screen, willing Harry to stay in his place, to not stand up, because standing up means leaving, and leaving means Valentine and—No, that can’t be right.

Valentine’s not here, the church is just full of religious zealots, and Harry’s going to be fine.

He’s going to walk out of there, and he’s coming back to London to sort everything out.

“What’s your problem?”

“I’m a Catholic whore, currently enjoying congress out of wedlock with my black Jewish boyfriend who works at a military abortion clinic. Hail Satan, and have a lovely afternoon, madam.”

Eggsy knows what’s coming, what that buzzing in the background means, before it begins, but it doesn’t matter because it’s happening, the scene is playing and neither he nor Harry are in control of their bodies. He sits still, listening as the sounds from Kentucky carry across the miles through Harry’s office’s stupid surround sound system.

It takes a great amount of strength to close his eyes, but he can’t watch this (not again).

Hearing it is just as bad. The sound of bodies falling and gun shots ringing are familiar to Eggsy by now. The cadence of a life that he’s used to, but there are other sounds carrying over the line: harsh rapid breathing, and confusion in Merlin’s voice carrying over the line. Eggsy almost wants to cut in, tell him to stop wasting his breath because Harry can’t hear them, but it doesn’t matter.

Before long the noises die down, the silence settles, and he opens his eyes just in time to hear Harry’s last words.

As the Valentine raises the gun, he’s not simply pointing it at Harry, but pointing it through the screen. As though when he takes the shot it will be Eggsy bleeding to death on the pavement outside the Southern Mission Glade Church. There’s an echo of a gunshot, a noise so familiar that Eggsy could have remembered it for the rest of his life—

 

 

The words spill off his lips, vicious and unfiltered, “What, have you got him here stuffed and all?”

He’s so caught up in self-righteous anger all over again that he almost forgets how this memory ends.

That is until his heart nearly stops at the shrill sound of Harry’s glasses going off, and he’s nearly forgotten how to breathe by the time Harry manages to say, “You just stay there. I’ll sort this mess out when I get back.”

A feeling of dread settles over him at this familiar words, echoing through his head as though he’s heard them a thousand times.

 _“_ No, you won’t because you’re not going to make it back. This was my last chance to say something and I fucked it up, god Harry I fucked everything up and—” his throat closes up before he can get anymore more words out.

In the end, none of this matters because Harry’s walking away, and he’s going to get on a plane and head across the world to his death, and there’s nothing Eggsy can do to stop that.

There’s a second when he thinks there might be a chance, when Harry, standing in the doorway, turns over his shoulder for a second with a question on his lips, but Eggsy blinks and it’s all—

 

 

[ “Huh.”

“Merlin, is something wrong?

“Nothing I hadn’t expected. The boy’s stubborn, that’s all.”

“Can you put it back on course?”

“I’ll give him an extra dose, though it might do more harm than good.” ]

 

 

When he follows Harry out of dressing room three, the whole world slips into slow motion. It feels a bit like he’s dying, (except that can’t be right because he’s only dreaming, and if you die in a dream you just wake up) the sound of his own heartbeat too faint to hear.

He shakes the man in the morning suit’s hand, before meeting the gaze of his assistant. There’s something about her that’s almost familiar. As her eyes flick over him appraisingly, he raises his own to meet her gaze.

Her name is at the tip of lips, but he can’t seem to force it out. His throat feels parched, and though he darts his tongue out in attempts to wet his lips, they come back drier than before.

As he takes a slow breath, he can’t even remember what he had been meaning to say.

Someone else says something, he can’t be sure who, because there’s a static sound filling his ears, a deafening thing, the voices of the people around him slowing down until he can’t hear them anymore. It feels a bit like drowning, reminding him of the water rushing in that first night as a trainee, except this time he can’t figure out how to move.

“Gentlemen, would you look after him please?” And just like that the spell is broken, the world speeds back to normal again, Valentine’s crew is gone out the door, and Harry is walking away (what is it with him and walking away) from Eggsy once more.

He turns around, eyes following Harry as he leaves the shop, the chime above the doors sounding one last time—

 

 

Eggsy’s not used to waking up in a bed this comfortable. The bunks the recruits had been forced into were by far the most uncomfortable ones in existence, and combined with the sounds of Charlie’s snores, a good night’s sleep had been near impossible.

Waking up refreshed is surprising to say the least.

Perhaps even more surprising is the smell of food wafting up the stairs and into the room. It takes him a few moments, moments in which he lies there and basks in the comfort of a home that he’ll never feel comfortable in again, before he’s finally struggling up out of the bed.

He manages to stumble over to the bathroom, splash some cold water onto his face and make himself semi-presentable. There’s a red dressing gown hanging on the back of the door, and he pulls it on with ease. The robe smells like Harry, a warm sort of comfort that wraps around him as he shuffles out of the bathroom and down the stairs.

Harry’s at the kitchen counter when he makes it into the room, sipping from a tea cup while a pan of something that smells delicious cooks before him.

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Harry says.

Probably the understatement of the century.

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Ah, it’s a bit too late to be asking that, isn’t it,” Harry says, or at least his voice fills the air, but he’s drinking his tea and there’s no way he could speak, not with—

 

 

He’s pretty sure the first lesson of being a gentleman should actually be some lecture about the proper forks to use and how to speak to royalty, but Eggsy couldn’t care in the slightest, not when Harry’s standing right next to him, their shoulders brushing every few seconds as he teaches Eggsy everything he could possibly need to know if he ever quit Kingsman to become a bartender.

His lips taste like alcohol and something sweet as he runs his tongue over them, and he can’t help but wonder what Harry’s would taste like right now. Would they be just as sweet and as tempting as they looked? Would his kisses be soft and feather light against his lips, while reverent words were whispered between them? Or would Harry push him back against the wall, taking control easily, kissing into Eggsy’s mouth, while as his hands worked his belt down, in order to divest him of his trousers?

“I wanted to kiss you, right here,” Eggsy says, setting the glass down onto the edge of Harry’s desk. “It wasn’t ‘cause I was drunk or some shite like that, but ‘cause it was you and I wanted to.”

The admission tumbles from his lips with an ease that he never could have had the first time through. Not that Harry seems to have noticed, still playing out the memory, silently making another martini up for himself.

It’s then, as he’s supposed to make some joke about _shaken, not stirred_ , that his words come out all wrong. “You should have.”—

Eggsy’s never been into bondage.

As far as his sex life goes, his experiences have been far more vanilla than he would be willing to admit. Still though there’s something about having Harry crouched over him, cutting his hands free, that make Eggsy want to buck his hips forward.

Figures Harry Hart would be the one to make Eggsy realize he’s actually a kinky fucker.

“You alright there?” Harry asks, having the nerve to sound _concerned._

“Fine,” he grits out. “Abso-fucking-lutely fine.”

It’s taking almost all of his resolve to stay in place, not to move too much as Harry crosses over to untie the other wrist. He’s half tempted to move, to get just a little bit of friction. If Harry said anything, he’d blame it on the fear.

Fear boners were definitely a thing, they had to be.

“You’re a bit tense,” Harry remarks, far too casually.

“I thought I was going to die.” He really had. Of course, that was the point of the test, to prove that they were loyal to the organization, loyal enough to give their lives to protect Kingsman secrets.

But it wasn’t Kingsman he had been willing to die for, it was—

 

 

“Harry? Merlin said you wanted to see me?”

It’s a bit silly, but this is probably the best conversation he ever had with Harry.

There was pride in his voice, and this one he wouldn’t mind keeping; it’s so innocent and pure. And for the only time in his life, he gets to see the edges of Harry’s lips quirk slightly into something that could almost be considered a smile.

He can’t lose that.  

“Please don’t, don’t take this one away,” Eggsy says, as the memory version of Merlin appears. But he doesn’t even react to Eggsy’s words, just continues on as he had done before, telling Eggsy to leave so he can speak to Harry alone.

He had stayed before, but this time he leaves, unwilling to see Harry’s face anymore, if only he was going to lose this too.

Instead he says, “It’s alright, I should be going,” and pushes the door out of the hospital room to—

 

 

It’s two simple words this time, said right after he finishes the latest of Merlin’s grueling language tests, and for a second he just blinks in confusion. The Greek in his head makes everything seem muddled, and he blurts out, “what,” almost immediately.

There’s some snickers behind him that Eggsy doesn’t even pay a second's attention to, because Merlin gets the pinched look on his face that Eggsy has begun to classify as mild annoyance before he repeats himself, “Galahad’s awake, if you’d like to see him.”

He’s out the door without a word in reply, because he needs to see Harry, there’s so much he needs to say to him, so much he needs to ask before—

 

 

“Merlin said you was fine, but if you is then how come you ain’t waking up?”

He stares at the sleeping form of Harry as though expecting him to answer. Predictably no answer comes, probably due to the fact that he’s in a _fucking coma_.

“You need to wake up, you hear? Because we’re supposed to bond and shit, and you’re supposed to mentor me and I’m going to fucking fall for you and I can’t do that if you’re just gonna fucking lie there and look like you’re dead, even though you ain’t.”

 _Not yet anyway_ , his traitorous mind supplies.

“Harry, just you gotta wake up, yeah? Cause I’m fucking in love with you and I’m going to forget to tell you, so you need to . . . _I_ need to wake up.”

Harry’s not the one asleep. No, technically he is, but he’s also not because _Eggsy_ is the one asleep, and he’s going to forget about all of this. He’s going to forget what Harry looks like with a hint of stubble, because he’s asleep and can’t shave himself. He’s going to forget how peaceful Harry can look, even with the sound of the heart monitors beeping in the background.

Just like he’s forgetting how to make a martini, and the name of the stupid stuffed dog in the bathroom, and that look of disappointment in Harry’s eyes just before he turns away.

“I’m not going to fucking lose you,” Eggsy says. “Not this time. I know I’m dreaming, so I’ll change things, let Merlin know I don’t want to do this anymore. It’s like he said before,” but Eggsy can’t remember what he said before. He’s sure it was something, important to, a way to stop the process maybe, but that memory’s already gone, and as he blinks his eyes this one is going as well, the world crumbling down around him into dust—

 

 

[ “Procedure’s nearly finished.”

“He looks sad.”

“Imagine what he’s reliving right now; he has every right to be. You know, it’s not too late for me to stop the whole thing.”

“This is what he wanted, remember that.”

“You’re going to be saying those words for the rest of your life.”

“Yes, I rather imagine I will be.” ]

 

 

“Your father had that same look on his face.”

And just like that the sense of wonder he had felt fades away at once, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth as he looks out at the planes he will never see again.

“Eggsy?” Harry prompts, because he’s said something now, something that Eggsy was supposed to react to.

He turns to Harry then, taking in his confused look as he says, “Come along.”

Instinctively, his fingers tighten around Harry’s wrist, refusing to let him go. When Harry stills, no longer moving down their predestined path, he thinks that it might have worked, that he might have been able to stop things.

“Eggsy...”

“I don’t want to lose you,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper, but with Harry so close there’s no way he could miss hearing him.

He doesn’t react though, not like the way Eggsy had hoped, instead he sighs softly and says, “We’re already late.”—

 

 

“What do you see?”

“Somebody who wishes this wasn’t happening,” he says, knowing that he’s getting the lines wrong, and knowing that it won’t change Harry’s responses.

“I see a young man with potential. A young man who is loyal. Who can do as he’s asked, and who wants to do something good with his life.” Harry says, as predicted, “Have you ever seen the film ‘Trading Places’?”

So, why not play along. “No.”

“How about ‘Nikita’? ‘Pretty Woman’?” Harry prompts. “Alright. My point is that the lack of a silver spoon has set you on a certain path, but you needn’t stay on it. If you’re prepared to adapt and learn, you can transform.

“That’s it,” Eggsy says, because he’s been doing this all wrong.

He’s always been the pragmatic one, the one who can adapt to shitty circumstances and make things work out, and ain’t this the same thing? There’s been stories about it, people lost in their dreams, living a second life made up from their own minds. For Harry, he’d be willing to give up reality.

For Harry he’d be willing to give up everything.

“Well, you’re full of surprises.”—

 

 

They’re sitting together in the Black Prince and _this_ is it.

Dean’s goons are going to interrupt them any second now, Harry’s going to stand up and fight them, and then he’ll be gone. Unless he does something fast.

He’s standing up out of his seat, ignoring Harry’s scripted lines, and he isn’t surprised a second later when his list of Eggsy’s failings in life falls silent. Those well trained eyes follow him as he moves around the shop.  

“Why are you doing this?”

Eggsy doesn’t have to ask what _this_ is supposed to mean.

“You were so disappointed in me and I thought this would make it easier, but I was wrong,” Eggsy admits. “I don’t want to lose you—I don’t.”

“Then don’t,” Harry replies, rising from his seat and offering Eggsy his hand. It’s when he takes it, fingers sliding against a well-worn palm like he’s coming home, that their scenery begins to shift.

The static noise is back, buzzing in his ears.

“You were supposed to fucking come back and sort everything out,” Eggsy explains, “but you didn’t you fucking died! I can’t stop looking in the mirror and seeing you everywhere and I’m losing my fucking mind. The docs they all think I’m fucking bonkers, yeah but it’s ‘cause of you, ‘cause you’re gone and I’m still fucking stuck here.”

“My apologies.”

“No, fuck this, you don’t get to apologize for dying—that don’t fix nothing. But don’t you fucking worry, ‘cause I’m gonna fix this. Just give me a second, yeah?”

He closes his eyes, focuses on the feeling of Harry’s hand in his own, and draws on a thread of a memory from a time gone past. The buzzing in his ears gets louder as the doors to the pub slam open, but he never gets to hear what Dean’s goons have to say, because by the next time he breathes out the only sounds surrounding them are the buzzing of bees and the mindless chatter of housewives.

He remembers this park from when he was younger; his father used to take him here back when he was on leave ( _back when he was alive_ ). The swings would squeak if you went too high, and there was a drug dealer hanging about near the toilets.

“Why are we here?”

“Because Merlin won’t be able to find us here,” ( _this is safe)_ , Eggsy explains. “I didn’t even know who you was yet.”

There’s a sound of childish laughter as a ghost impression of himself jumps off the swing set, tumbling onto the wood chips on the ground, not caring that he’s split the skin of his knee.

“I don’t think that’s exactly how this works.”

“Yeah, well, unless you’ve got a better plan—”

“This won’t last.”

Nothing good ever does, not for Eggsy.

“Just shut the fuck up, okay,” he snaps, tugging his hard away from Harry’s sharply. “I know this is all in my fucking head, I know it ain’t real, but that don’t mean nothing. I’m keeping you, alright, and ain’t nobody gonna mess this up.”

“Very eloquent, Eggsy.”

“I thought I told you to shut the fuck up.”

“Why don’t you make me?”

Rationally, he knows that the Harry he knew would never say that. He’d say something proper and gentlemanly, probably quote Hemingway or some shite like that, but this is an opportunity Eggsy isn’t going to miss.

“Yeah, alright,” he says, before tugging Harry in by the lapels of his suit jacket.

Kissing Harry is just like he imagined _(probably because he’s imagining it right now);_ he kisses like they might never get a chance to do this again. Hands pulling at Eggsy’s hair, pulling him closer, until there’s no space between them. Teeth biting sharply into his bottom lip, and he can taste iron as they kiss again, but he can’t feel the pain.

In fact, he can’t feel much of anything. A numbness spreads out from his lips as static begins to slowly fill his ears.

“Eggsy, _Eggsy you need to breath_ ,” Harry’s voice says in his ear. “He’s having a seizure. You need to shut this”—

 

 

[ “Eggsy, you need to breathe.”

“He can’t hear you, not while he’s under.”

“He’s having a seizure. You need to shut this procedure down.”

“We shouldn’t have given him that second dose, but it’s too late now. We can’t pull him out when he’s in a sleep cycle this deep—there’s a chance he wouldn’t wake up.”

“I won’t have him die because of me.” ]

 

 

He walks out of the precinct, nobody stopping him, and it all feels a bit unreal.

_(Probably because it is.)_

There’s a man waiting for him on the steps as he exits, a man whom he knows instinctively, even though all logic says that the man standing before him should be a mystery. A shadowy figure that he’s not supposed to remember anymore.

“Who the fuck are you?” Eggsy asks, like he doesn’t already know the answer to his own question.

And Harry, leaning against the wall, wearing his stupid transition shades and bespoke suit, looking like the best thing in the entire world, replies, “I’m the love of your life.”—

 

 

Eggsy’s five years old, and his mum is crying.

There’s a strange man in a suit, saying words that mean nothing to either of them. Eggsy will forget about him later, forget the face that in another life could have been well known to him.

He’s just a strange man in a suit who’s made his mother cry.

“What’s your name, young man?”

“Eggsy.”

There’s something in his hand. The man in the suit had offered it to his mum a bit before, but she’d been crying and hadn’t wanted it. Now the man holds it up to him, the light catching the gold lettering.

He means to reach out and grab it, because there’s something inside of Eggsy, a voice in the back of his head that desperately tells him he’ll need the number on the back one day. But he hesitates just a moment too long, and the man stands up again and tucks the medal into his pocket.

The man in the suit sounds tired when he speaks. “Perhaps it’s better this way.”—

 

 

[ His head is pounding when he wakes up, throat dry, and his whole body aches all over. All signs pointing to a bitch of a hangover.

There’s the sound of the doorbell ringing, piercing through the fog in his head, before the familiar sound of his mum’s feet on hardwood floors follows. There’s some mumbled conversation that he doesn’t bother trying to pick up until his mum calls for him.

“Eggsy, babe,” his mum calls from the doorway, “there’s a man, says he’s from your work, here to drop off your stuff?”

That’s right, he’d gotten sacked.

Eggsy Unwin, fuck up of the year, can’t even hold down a job proper at the tailor shop. He sets the cup down in the sink before slinking out to the kitchen and around to the front door.

There’s a confused frown on his mum’s face; apparently he hasn’t gotten around to giving her the bad news. He shoots her what he hopes is a reassuring smile before turning to the man in the doorway.

“Thanks,” he says, grabbing the box.

The bloke standing at the door is unfamiliar, but the suit he’s wearing is clearly one of Kingsman’s—top of the line bespoke, as a proper gentleman deserves. Still, everything in the box checks out as his, so there’s no reason to doubt the man’s claim.

When Eggsy looks away from his knickknacks, he meets an almost sorrowful gaze on the stranger’s face. He says, “The pleasure’s all mine,” though his tone tells a different story.

“You sure we worked together, bruv?” Eggsy asks, giving him one last long gaze. “’Cause swear down, I ain’t never seen you in my fucking life.”

“I worked with more of our international clients, long terms projects,” the man explains. “I actually just returned from a trip to the States.”

“Is that right?” Eggsy replies with a wry grin. “Well, wish I could have gotten to meet ya, before I got the fucking boot. I’m Eggsy, by the way, though you probably knew that, yeah? On account of getting the job of bring my shite over here.”

“Yes, I—I knew who you were,” he replies slowly, taking a deep breath as if steeling himself for a possibly dismal scenario. “I’m Harry Hart.”

“Hm.”

“Yes?”

“It’s nothing. Just sounded familiar for a second there, but I lost it.”

“Perhaps it’s for the best,” he says, and then he nods once and shuffles a bit awkwardly. “I’m sorry, Eggsy. Have a wonderful life.”

And Eggsy’s not sure why, but there’s an impulse inside of him, or something like a voice inside of his head reminding that _manners maketh man_. Before Harry can get entirely down the steps, Eggsy calls out to him again. “Oi, bruv, it ain’t your fault. You know that, yeah?”

He can’t be entirely sure, but for a second Eggsy swears he hears Harry say, “If only that were true,” in a voice no louder than a whisper, before he walks out of Eggsy’s life. ]

 


End file.
